Salt in Wound

I take very good care of my backpacks. (Umbrellas too, but that’s another story.) As a result, I can remember every backpack I’ve ever owned. When my sister was graduating college, I was graduating high school, so she bequeathed me her grey JanSport backpack to begin my own university career. That was my first. JanSport offers a lifetime guarantee, so when the zipper finally gave out — it’s always the zipper — I mailed in my backpack for repair or replacement. Voilà, a brand-new black backpack arrived in the mail. It was like magic. I got more than a decade of use out of those two packs and didn’t pay a penny beyond postage.

By the late 1990s, I’d become too lazy to mail in the backpack, so I went to Modell’s and purchased a new one. That bag served me well until 2008, when I bought yet another identical backpack from Amazon.

Now, I love my backpacks. Call it Peter Pan Syndrome if you like, but I freaking love them. I love that front pocket, perfect for glasses or handheld electronics, and I love the little pocket within that front pocket — a spare battery, earplugs, etc. And then the big main pouch: books, magazines, scrunched-up jacket, umbrella. Weather usually determined if I would be carrying a backpack. On a nice day, especially in the summer, I could cram my belongings into my pockets instead, to not be burdened by a bag over the shoulder. But if rain was forecast, that meant an umbrella, and that meant the backpack. (Except at Yankee Stadium after 2001, when security tightened. I was forced to carry a tote bag, like an animal. The terrorists had won!)

With the pre-2008 backpack. Photo by Bobby Sabharwal.

When I finally returned home late last year after a lengthy hospitalization, many of my belongings had been moved around by friends, to provide me with more room to negotiate a wheelchair, etc. So it took a while to rediscover much of my stuff. The day I opened my living room closet and saw my backpack hanging there, my heart swelled. It was like seeing an old friend. Two old friends, really — the umbrella was inside.

As I began walking on prosthetics, the backpack became a more integral part of my life than ever before. Without getting overly graphic, I’ve been wearing loose-fitting shorts without many pockets. So if I’m carrying anything with me, in the backpack it goes. It was a learning process: While heading up or down the stairs with a cane, I found that the backpack would slide down my arm. So I began using the nerdy two-strap method.

And thus it was on July 29, when I brought my backpack to the Historic Jersey City and Harsimus Cemetery. It was the annual Goatstock fundraiser, to pay for the rented goats who chow down on the peskiest weeds. I love goats and history and music, so I was excited to attend once again. Plus, my friends Life in a Blender were playing. Organizer Eileen kindly brought a chair down by the stage for me, as I can’t yet stand for the duration of a show. And my backpack went into double duty: When I’d stand up to photograph a band, as is my wont, I’d put the backpack on the chair to “save” it.

This worked fine through the first five bands I saw. Then Mark of Life in a Blender asked if I’d use his fancy camera to take some snaps during their set. Sure, I said. So I was up and out of my chair a bit longer during Blender’s performance than during the previous groups, taking a photo with my point-and-shoot (for Facebook), my phone (for Instagram), and several with Mark’s camera. When I felt I’d captured a sufficient number of decent shots, I returned to my chair.

Except, my backpack was gone.

What the fuck? Did it fall? Did someone move it? I asked a guy who was standing RIGHT THERE but he was no help whatsoever. I alerted my friend Dancing Tony, who was in charge of the music. I asked around to nearby folks. An announcement was made. I saw volunteers conducting a search. Tony texted a band that had just packed up and left; perhaps they had accidentally thought the bag was theirs.

Meanwhile, I grew increasingly furious. Which is no mean feat, as the anti-depressants tend to temper my emotions. As time passed, I became more certain that my backpack had been stolen. And what kind of motherfucker would target a disabled person? At a goddamned fundraiser?

I gamely photographed the next act, but I was simultaneously cataloging the items that were in my backpack. My keys! Well, how the hell was I going to get back in my building? I began texting neighbors, with no reply. Were my license and debit card in there too? Shit. At least, and at last, someone took my iPod Classic that had engraved on the back, “You just stole Jack Silbert’s iPod.” (That one had replaced an earlier iPod which was swiped at Phebe’s in Manhattan.) Also, thirty-one dollars cash.

As I left, Eileen and Tony assured me they’d continue the hunt, and they felt very confident the bag would turn up. But a backpack is like a missing child — time is of the essence. When I was dropped off at home, drummer Ken kindly spotted me $20, just in case I couldn’t get in. He also offered that I could come home with him, but I just wanted to be alone; my anger was transitioning to sadness.

The final person I tried, first-floor neighbor Dave, was home and was able to let me into the building. Thankfully, I’d left my own door unlocked. As my sadness slowly shifted to nothingness (thank you, Zoloft), I took further stock of the situation. It turned out I’d been smart enough to leave my license and debit card at home. But what else was missing? A high quality WNYC portable phone charger. Spare camera battery. Pen. Two cough drops. Ear plugs. A button from Popfest New England that had been in my bag since 2010. An orange Colleen Green baseball cap that I’d only bought at a concert six goddamn days earlier. I was wearing it when it was sunny out, but as the clouds moved in, I put it in my bag. A red plastic Solo cup that I use to, you know what, I’d rather not discuss it, but it involves the loose-fitting shorts.

At the cemetery with the Colleen Green cap. At left, last known image of my 2008 backpack. Photo by Mark Lerner.

Leader Don and the other members of Life in a Blender generously kicked in some money which offset the cost of re-purchasing the missing items. (I never have seen the photos I took of the band, but it’s not like the process of taking them resulted in great mental distress. Oh wait.) Identical black JanSport backpack. Good but not as good portable phone charger. Spare camera batteries. Non-Apple MP3 player. (Now, I know what you’re thinking, why don’t you use your phone to take pictures and to listen to music? You see, I have a LOT of music, and also, often the camera takes better photos than the phone, and, oh I don’t owe you an explanation.) My buddy Patrick had an extra set of my keys, as he’s been faithfully fetching my mail during my recovery. So I just try not to think too much about the thief methodically testing my keys on every front door in Hudson County until he finally reaches mine.

Then things got a little trickier. I Facebook-friended Christine of Christine and William, who ran Popfest New England. Did they possibly have any of the buttons with the suitcase logo on them still lying around? It had a lot of sentimental value; reminded me of happier times. Kind of a good luck charm whenever I felt it while reaching into that front pocket.

I then looked on Colleen Green’s merch page, but there was no sign of the baseball cap. I emailed, explaining the situation, and said I’d like to buy one, orange if possible. Colleen herself wrote back, asking for my address and expressing sympathy for what had occurred.

Most of August found me in the hospital for planned surgery, and then rehab for an extended stretch. When I finally got home, the mother lode was waiting for me. Amazon box with a bunch of stuff within. Large envelope from Connecticut with not only the suitcase button, but a lot of other buttons and an awesome vintage Popfest New England t-shirt. Oh man I hope they hold that festival again someday!

Soon a small box arrived from California. Inside, an orange baseball cap with the name Colleen Green emblazoned across the front. I’d offered both her and Christine money for these items but they wouldn’t take any. People are super nice. Except sons of bitches who rob from cripples in cemeteries.

Debuted my new backpack at a recent rock show, suitcase button securely inside. Front pocket, little pocket, big pouch. Single strapping, double strapping. We’re back, backpack! And I love you.